


A Touch of Class

by inkandchocolate



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandchocolate/pseuds/inkandchocolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel and Wes attempt to get it on in the Hyperion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of Class

**Author's Note:**

> **Improv :** plush -- broken -- bewilder - moonlight  
> **Dedication:** Sam and Lar would like to dedicate this to ethrosdemon, for the Abbott and Costello remark, and to Donna for not herding us back to the darkside with a cattle prod. Yet. Sam says: to Lar for humoring her mid-panic about evil web-hosts. Lar says: to Sam for encouraging her to laugh as much as possible

"So I have to take time out of my schedule to get Angel's blood supply? Remind me again how this is part of my job description?"

Cordelia's hands seem to be glued to her hips as she glares at them both. Years of dust have been finally expunged from the hotel and it's plain that she's expecting a little time off to consider the important things in life - like whether she'll spend the bonus Angel's been blackmailed into on shoes or manicure. Visiting the local blood bank and paying for squishy sacks of O positive is clearly not on her agenda.

And here she is, waiting for either of them to convince her to leave the office. Daring either long streak of maleness to do anything other than beg.

"Well?"

Angel tries not to look at Wesley for too long, all too aware that the man is just seconds away from mttering, 'but I've got to research something in my books,' and ending this particular segue. That phrase is almost becoming tiresome - she didn't buy it last time and she certainly isn't going to believe it now. And if he keeps using it, they really are going to have to come up with an actual book to show her. All it would really do is pique her interest.

And that is about the last thing they want.

He takes a breath and stares back at her, hoping that slightly-bored-ready-to-do-battle Angel is the face she can see. She's used to that. She hates that.

"Cordelia, please - can we just pretend that I'm the boss today?"

Tongue against lip and Angel knows that she's not prepared to take any half-hearted excuses. Being her boss is still something they rebel against - him for having power, her for recalling that power at any given moment.

It's going to take more than wet promises of what is.

It's going to take bribery.

There's a moment where she sees him clearly and a flicker of a smile edges at her mouth.

"And if I happen to do this, and take the route through Rodeo Drive?"

"The blood bank's nowhere near."

Wesley quiets suddenly as Angel covers his mouth. With his free hand, he reaches into his pocket and draws out cash, unable to count it and not really caring. He can feel the press of teeth behind his fingers, warm tongue moistening his palm. With a nod to the kitchen door, Angel tosses the money to Cordelia.

"As long as you don't spend it all on shoes. I don't plan on going hungry and I will take the difference out of you."

With the experience of the spendy, she pushes the wad into her purse and smiles winningly at them both before heading to the part of the world that shopped.

"I'll be as quick as I can."

"Sure you will."

The door slams behind them and there is silence until they hear the click click of her heels echoing on the hotel steps. Angel finally looses his hand from Wesley's mouth and reaches into his pants, trying to find a last note, anything more than the flint that coats his fingers.

"You do realize she's had you again?'

He looks up at Wesley, faint redness round his mouth, pressure yet too hard. With a shake of his head, Angel forgoes the penny-pinching and watches as the red starts to fade back to cream. There's seriousness here in his Englishman, something inbuilt, unable to be shed no matter how many horrors come his way.

Angel likes it.

"Two hundred and forty years and you think I'm going to be outwitted by a teenager?"

Wesley tilts his head to one side and regards him solemnly.

"With her killer instinct for a sale? I'd say your supplies are going to come back as satin heeled pumps."

"Oh."

Angel's tried to fight the smirk that battles his ego for a long time, but here it feels easy and more than that - helpful. And he can smell Wesley's approval, even if he doesn't want to admit it yet. There is danger inherent here; there is pleasure to be had. And there is something he can drop into conversation.

"It's probably a good thing I stocked up yesterday, then."

And here is Wesley shocked and pleased in one expression, stepping closer and waiting for Angel to admit his wickedness. Which he would do, freely.

"You mean you lied to her? An impressionable young woman like that and you..."

The words seem to fall away as Angel's fingers run lightly over Wesley's outstretched hand. Skin on skin, cool on warm - all mixed up with an innocent gesture. He smiles at the Englishman, looking at the slightly parted lips, craving acceptance there.

"So I'm a bad role model."

He slides his hand up to rest under the recently shaven chin, counting the beats in his head as Wesley's pulse throbs. Angel leans in and whispers against his neck.

"What you gonna do, Wes? Chain me up and force me to be nice to her?"

He can feel a catch in the rhythm and wonders briefly if he's pushing it too far. If Wesley's really game for any of this, for anything he can possibly have to offer. But it is on offer and he craves it.

All he needs is the word.

"Be nice to whom?"

And now his hands are tingling, brushing across roughened skin, finding more flesh, reaching round, ready to utter some other enticement. But Wesley's already there, dipping his head slightly to kiss him, meeting Angel's hungry tongue with his own. And, as all stolen kisses tend to be, Angel feels the ache begin, growing in his belly and sinking lower to other, as yet unexplored areas. He can taste traces of sweet tea in Wesley's mouth, the heat beneath his hands and the hard edge of the table behind him.

He turns quickly, pressing Wesley against it, hands slipping away from the neck to find the exposed flesh at his wrist. Familiar hips push against his; he is wanting and being wanted in the same beat. Something he hasn't had in forever. Pulse still reverberates round his head and he nips at a not-so-stiff upper lip, sampling the moan and texture of his favored employee. Months of sneaking moments in Cordelia's apartment finally coming to fruition as Wesley's fingers take an exploratory walk down his spine.

Angel wants his hands to be everywhere, to own everything with each touch. To caress and feel the uninhibited response in his own home. No more hiding, no more trying to evade Cordelia's omnipresence. Everything else in his unlife might be screwed - and that redemption is so far off he daren't even look for it. But this he wants to have properly - he wants this one thing to have finesse and style and in his own damn bed. And he smiles against Wesley's mouth, contemplating getting this long, lean form into his sheets and pressed up against the headboard, thighs bouncing on the mattress as he creeps closer.

Angel's hand slips to squeeze a tense thigh and with a groan, Wesley pulls away long enough to sweep everything from the table, crockery smashing loudly on the floor. He turns back round, face shiny with a film of perspiration, hands grasping for Angel's belt, tearing at it until the vampire's hand comes down and stops him.

He raises a bewildered face to Angel, fingers still hooked into the leather.

"You don't want to do this?"

Angel attempts a casual nod; tries to clear his mind of the only thing that seems obvious right now. Tries not to think so much about pounding Wesley into the hard wood of his kitchen table. Looks at Wesley and sees the confusion.

"Then what?"

He leans forward, tasting beads of salt at the edge of Wesley's mouth, wanting to taste more.

"I want you. I just..."

He breaks off, willing the Englishman to finish the sentence for him. He's not big with words. Nothing of substance for so long and then just nothing left to say. Except 'I want you.' He knows how to say that. He tries again.

"Didn't we say we'd take this upstairs?"

And Wesley just stares at him, the hard throb of his body apparently outweighing romance. More words are needed. More words - the right words.

"To bed. To my...I wanted to take you to bed. Just...I wanted to do this right."

The tumble of words dries up as Wesley's look of incomprehension turns to disbelief. This he didn't expect - being wanted back is one thing, being wanted so much. He smiles a little and reaches for coherency.

"Wes, there's sixty-four bedrooms in this hotel and all of them have a bed. Let's at least try and make it to one of them."

After a moment, Wesley closes his mouth and lays a hand back on the table.

"I thought it would be...romantic...you know - sweeping everything off the table and just having a go right here."

//been there, done that//

Angel shrugs and gestures to the crockery carnage.

"Well it would, except that was my favorite mug."

Wesley looks at the splintered wreckage on the floor, the 'annoying the cook will result in smaller portions' logo now barely readable.

"Sorry. I'll, er, pick you up another one tomorrow."

He turns back to face Angel, proper sincerity in tact, despite the swelling of his loins, and the vampire grins at this show of Englishness. Yet another trait that begs his attention; another single entendre to be perverted.

"Why not just make it up to me now?"

Wesley rolls his eyes until Angel pulls him close again, nibbling and biting at his lips, kissing with very obvious hunger for body and soul. He can hear the rush of blood passing through the mortal's body, drawing him in at the prospect, easing his way forward. Hands once more reaching round, touching and squeezing and relishing in the ache of desire and that table is too damn close.

And his pants are once more at Wesley's mercy.

"Wes, just...dammit. Stop!"

Wesley pants hard against his neck, clearly unwilling to give up on this idea. And he can't blame him, because want is hard to back away from. But he wants *this*, he wants to do this somewhere were humanity's the closest contact they have.

"Why the Hell not?"

Angel closes his eyes and tries to numb his nose from the pheromones Wesley's giving off. He should give in *now*, should do this here, but.

"Look, we've waited. Can't we just...wait a little longer?"

"For what? Cordelia to catch us flagrante?"

He grins and risks leaning back to see Wesley's flustered face.

"Humor me, will you - I'm old fashioned."

"Very old, anyway."

And there's suddenly more kissing to be done as he urges his half-willing companion out of the kitchen. It's amazing how easily he can get Wesley just...ahh...where he wants him, providing that his fingers caress human shoulder-blades, his mouth playing out deep kiss after deep kiss. And he's vaguely aware that he's making up for long years without touching or feeling. But it's too good to analyze, too good to do anything except revel in the moment, pressing Wesley up against the elevator before the human suspects anything. And he reaches for the button before Wesley can make another stand and demand that the next step they take isn't literal.

His hands slide under Wesley's shirt, feeling the shape of rib under muscle, wiry hair tickling his fingertips. And he groans loudly at the contact, feeling nipples tingle as he touches them, cold skin forcing live flesh to mold into hardness. But the sound is swallowed up the wake of a clanking moan.

He swallows hard, trying to keep this moment, but the groan grows louder and they both look up, the elevator's presence loudly and uncomfortably announced.

"Do you really think we should get in there?"

"Live on the edge, Wes."

He nuzzles at the man's neck again, Wesley's hands still firmly on his body, comforting in a very tingly way.

"Think of all the things we can do on the way up."

Wesley tightens and Angel pulls back to see a resolute face.

"I'm thinking, Angel. And all that keeps coming to me is that the stairs look a whole lot more reliable."

The vampire feels the shudder pass through Wesley's body and leans back in, tracing the shape of his ear with his tongue.

"Shouldn't we have insurance to ride in there?"

"You mean to tell me that the thought of having your own vampire in there with you isn't reassuring enough."

Wesley's hands away from his back and pushing him backward, glare fixed on the Englishman's face.

"You're already dead - this isn't really your issue."

Angel steps into the open door, experimentally bouncing on the floor to prove how safe it is. But the creaks are thunderous and he stops, looking at Wesley outside, standing with his arms folded, his pants crumpled.

"I'm not getting in there."

But he can smell the arousal, can feel the prickly static in the air as Wesley's body calls for more than just a stand off. With what he hopes is 'that' grin, Angel draws off his shirt, lean torso glistening in reflected light.

"Don't think that taking your shirt off is going to do it."

"Do you really want to leave me alone in here?"

He can see Wesley doesn't want to leave him alone, ever. And whilst he likes that, he doesn't see the man step forward and in like he was supposed to.

"Who's going to protect me?"

Wesley coughs and pushes his glasses up, faint amusement now undisguised.

"You don't need protecting."

Angel leans against the back wall and stares back, centuries of practice stopping the blink.

"Who knows what kinds of nasty things could be going through my mind?"

He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops and can almost feel Wesley's feet itching to come forward.

"Could involve anything: ropes, chains...starting without you."

Without a word, Wesley takes a deep breath, regards the outside of the elevator once, looks at the grinning Angel. And steps inside.

He fusses as the doors close and the elevator whines into motion, the old dust-clogged motor sounding worse for the years of disuse. "I still say the stairs would have been faster."

"That's probably true, but could I do this if we had taken the stairs?"

And he is pressed into the corner of the elevator, Angel's face inches from his, breathlessly aware of the way the length of him is pressed along the entire length of Wesley. Hip to hip, bare chest to Wesley's crisp cotton shirt. A small smile flickers over Angel's face before he leans in to lick Wes's bottom lip and then suck it into his mouth.

Wesley leans himself into the full body embrace, letting himself forget the way the elevator had sounded, and the months he had waited for just this thing to be happening. Finally the stolen kisses are not rushed, the sounds of pleasure aren't masked. The hands on his body can take their time to explore at leisure.

Which they are doing in the most wonderfully thorough way.

So thoroughly, in fact that he barely registers the fact the elevator is now making quite a bit more noise than either of them. And as he breaks off a long, deep kiss that tastes of salt and cool flesh, the entire cage shudders to a halt with an exceptionally alarming jolt.

Angel glances over at the doors, and without looking at Wesley or removing himself from the embrace, he says quite calmly, "If you say 'I told you so' I swear I will leave you in here until Cordelia gets back."

"I was merely going to mention that it's going to be rather more difficult hoisting us out of here what with the added, uh... erection issue." Wesley adjusts himself as unobtrusively as possible but it's no help. He sighs. "I was prepared for it to be mind shattering, Angel, but this is looking more like body-shattering instead."

"Trust me." Angel grins at him, shades of Angelus in the smirk, and Wesley's heart does an abrupt flip in his chest. Not fear there, but desire shooting adrenaline though his body and to the root of the hardness he's been trying to shift and arrange to a less obvious position.

He watches as Angel effortlessly pries open the doors and gives a lithe, graceful climb up to the next floor. Just as he is appreciating the ease of motion and power contained in those tightly muscled thighs, he realizes that Angel has disappeared. He waits a moment to be sure he hasn't struck his head in the whole break down catastrophe, and then swears when he sees that he is indeed alone in the car.

"Bugger!" he exclaims, much louder than he thought. Or perhaps it's just the silence all around him that makes it sound like a tantrum-y shout.

From the open doors above his head drifts the sound of Angel's barely contained amusement at the entire turn of events. "Not yet," he says. "But we're getting there."

Then he's back, long arms reaching down to grasp Wesley around his forearms and hoist him up to the floor. There's a moment of discomfort as Wesley's hips and their added burden of his still raging erection slide against the edge of the flooring, and then he's getting to his knees to catch his breath and look up at Angel with undisguised displeasure.

"Wesley, I don't think I've ever seen you so rumpled without it being battle related." Arms crossed, Angel is smiling as he looks down and meets Wes's stare.

Whatever witty riposte is forthcoming is left unspoken. A loud and painful shriek of shearing steel comes from the elevator shaft, and then there is silence for a brief moment. There's a slithery swish of air as the snapped cable disappears from their sight in a brief rain of sparks.

The impact is almost anticlimactic, much less noise than Wesley actually expected given the size of the ancient metal behemoth that was their elevator. He resists the urge to walk to the open shaft and survey the damage from the height of the second floor.

Then it's a moot point as he finds himself lifted and pressed to the wall again, the slow caresses of the elevator replaced with more frantic grasping, harsher explorations of teeth and tongue. The accident seems to have set off something urgent in Angel, and Wesley is dragged along in the current. They slide towards the first door, hands tangled in shirts and waistbands, until they come to a panting halt against the varnished wooded surface.

Angel presses Wes's shoulders against the door, hands cool thought the cotton on Wesley's heated skin. "Give me the keys, Wes."

"Yes, right." He fumbles for the keys in fabric stretched uncomfortably tight, finds nothing in there, tries the other pocket. Closes his eyes and bangs his head slightly against the door. "I must have dropped them."

"Dropped them where?"

They both look towards the open elevator shaft and Angel leans back, gaining his balance and leaving Wesley wanting the weight of him pressed back again immediately.

"We'll take the stairs."

Wesley bites his tongue - quite literally - and follows Angel's broad back towards the staircase at the other end of the hall.

.. .. ..

"You've got to be having me on."

Wesley stares at Angel, hands on his hips and a look of utter disbelief on his face. Angel looks over his shoulder from where he stands at the door of the elevator which he has pried open with more than a little difficulty due to the rather crushed contents of the shaft behind them.

"What? No, what are you talking about?"

"You want me to go into the wreckage for the keys." Wesley repeats it as if he cannot possibly have heard him correctly the first time.

"I'll hold the door open for you. It's not like it can fall any further. We're in the basement." Angel looks honestly perplexed at Wesley's reaction.

"Wouldn't it be easier to say, force open a doorknob?"

"We're refurbishing the hotel, Wesley, not destroying it." There's an odd look on his face and Wesley isn't sure if it's Angel trying not to laugh.

"Tell that to the bloody lift." He mutters and sighs as he walks through the open doors into the remains of the elevator itself. A few moments of picking through the light debris reveals the missing key ring wedged into a crack between the shaft and the remains of the cage itself. Angel wiggles it free and holds it up to the light.

Twisted beyond recognition, the only skeleton key on hand dangles and glimmers dully from the leather tag in Angel's hands. Wesley stares at it and thinks aloud. "I'm beginning to wonder if this isn't meant to be."

Angel pockets the remains of the keys and shrugs. "They say my happiness isn't supposed to be complete."

"I hardly think this is what they had in mind."

"Want to see what *I* had in mind?"

"Does it involve the nice handy kitchen table?" Wesley looks hopeful.

"No." Arms crossed.

"The couch perhaps?"

"No."

"Maybe Cordelia's desk?" He's grinning now.

"Wesley..." Head tilted down again, dark eyes fairly glistening as he looks up at the other man. Full force of those bitter chocolate pools draws Wesley into old fantasies that are tantalizing close to becoming reality. He takes a deep breath.

"Then it's the doorknob or your sex life."

Angel looks down and pulls out the keys. One of them, he thinks, has got to fit.

Wesley clears his throat. "Can we do this before one of us dies?" Angel lifts an eyebrow. "OK, before *I* die."

Angel shrugs, grins and walks up the steps, Wesley following behind him. He tries to straighten out the keys in his hands without Wesley catching on, but it's difficult at best. He gets it fairly symmetrical, and produces it with a small flourish at the door where they had been not too very long ago.

Wesley crosses his arms and watches as the keys slides in perfectly. Angel turns to him and grins broadly as it turns in the lock, clicking over with a smooth motion.

And abruptly snaps off, leaving not even a millimeter of the jammed piece poking out from the lock plate where it rests.

Wesley leans in just a little, peering over Angel's shoulder. "You know, for someone once known as the Scourge of Europe, you're awfully anal about this whole bedroom idea."

Angel doesn't bother to favor Wesley with a look, but a low growl emanates from his chest. Wesley steps back just a little. "Right. Shutting up." He reaches past Angel, puts his hand on the doorknob, and prepares to jiggle it in such a way to hopefully convince the broken piece off key to jump out of the lock plate onto the floor.

With a quiet little click, the knob turns and the door opens. Wes clears his throat.

"Not a word, Wesley."

"Never entered my mind."

Angel grabs him and pulls him into the room, the strength behind his grip both thrilling and a little frightening as Wesley is propelled into his arms. He reaches behind Wes to flip on the light switch even as he draws him close. Another full body caress accompanies a searing kiss that makes them both groan. Wes tears himself away from the lush trap of Angel's mouth to get an idea of how far away the bed is, how soon they can both be out of their clothes and on the sheets. Angel follows his glance, the small smile dying on his face when he spies the bare mattress.

He takes a small breath. "I'll grab the sheets and..."

"Angel." Wesley lays a hand on his arm. "You said there had to be a bed. Well, there's a bed. No one said anything about sheets being necessary." Chanting to himself that he will not beg, he will*not* beg, damn it all.

Angel looks so earnest and sincere as he starts to walk towards the hallway. "I said we'd do this in a proper bed, and I mean it. That means sheets. It'll only take a minute."

Right, that's it, Wes decides. He looks Angel right in the eye and unbuttons his shirt with fingers that shake only the slightest bit. The shirt comes off, followed rapidly by a white cotton undershirt which is tossed to the floor. Angel's eyes drop to the small puddle of soft cotton on the dark pattered carpet and he swallows at the sudden pang that runs through him. In the short time it has taken him to look away from Wesley, the other man has managed to lose shoes and socks, and has undone button and zipper.

"Wes..." Angel's voice trails off as he takes in the tall, lithe body before him, chest furred with crisp dark hair. A thin trail of it disappears into the waistband of the pale blue boxers visible in the open gap of dark woolen trousers. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.

Wesley smiles at him. "Are you sure about the linen?"

"Maybe we don't need sheets." He steps forward, runs a hand up Wesley's arm to his neck, pulls him in again for another slow, deep kiss. When they break apart, Wes is breathing raggedly.

"We could always use your coat," he whispers, teasing grin hidden against Angel's neck.

"What? Do you have any idea how much it costs to have leather cleaned?" Angel is scandalized at the idea, or perhaps terrified at presenting yet another dry-cleaning bill to Cordelia.

Wesley punctuates his reply with a soft trail of kisses along the side of Angel's neck and across his shoulder. "Do you know how long we have until she gets back?"

"Sheets next time then." Angel's resolve melts under the assault of warm skin, soft lips, scent of Wesley's desire in the air.

"I'll buy you 300 count Egyptian cotton," sighs the other man as Angel turns to capture his mouth, reaching down to push the trousers from Wesley's hips. His cool hands slip inside the waistband of the boxers, trail over the small of Wesley's back, push him close. Wes rocks against him and then works Angel's belt free. He tugs the long strip of leather free from the loops that hold it with a brushing sound that make him shudder.

Angel steps back, smiles, and unhooks his own pants. Wes drops the belt, transfixed by the sight of those pale hands moving over the black materiel as the hook parts, the zipper slips down and more pale skin is revealed. //He's not wearing anything under those pants// Wes thinks wildly, heart thudding along. //Has he always done that? Did he plan it for today?// The idea makes him dizzy with a huge warm wave of pure lust, and as if reading his thoughts, Angel grins wickedly and prepares to remove the pants altogether. Wesley finds he is holding his breath.

He actually gasps when the room is plunged into absolute blackness. He cannot see anything at all, even moonlight banished with the windows being so well covered by the old thick curtains that Angel has seen fit to hang everywhere. When he realizes what has happened, Wesley swears softly. //This couldn't have waited one more minute? I was so bloody close...//

He steps forward to try and touch Angel, feel him in the dark, and trips over his own shoes. He bumps into Angel as he goes down, glasses flying from his face.

"Wesley, are you all right?" Angel's voice floats somewhere above him in the darkness, a darkness that somehow manages to be both completely impenetrable and yet fuzzy at the same time. His frustration is tempered by the obvious concern in Angel's voice, so Wes sighs and rolls over onto his back.

"I'm fine, I just tripped."

"Let me help you." Angel says, hand cautiously extended to reach out and grasp Wesley, help him to his feet.

The next two events happen in such quick succession that there was no way to tell which occurs first. The lights come back on in a blazing rush, and there is a distinct sound of crushing glass as Angel steps forward. He freezes, looks down at his boot, then back to Wesley.

"What was that?" Wes sounds resigned to the answer before it's even given.

Angel stutters. "Nothing. Nothing. Come on, Wes, let's get to the bed." He hauls Wesley to his feet, wincing as the remains of the glasses grind beneath his boot again. He steps off of them slowly, refusing to look at the pile of wire and glittering shards.

His face clear, Wesley sighs in relief. "Yes, let's do. Hand me my glasses."

"You really don't need them." Angel runs his hands up both of Wesley's arms, across his shoulders.

"Actually as you're naked, I really do need them."

Angel grabs his hands, presses it between them. "Wouldn't you rather just...feel?"

"I was planning on doing both." But he is busy feeling, he can't help himself cupping what was literally laid in his hand.

"Couldn't you just...squint?" Angel's voice has dropped in tone. It's huskier, deeper, honey coated as Wes's fingers rub and fondle and find the shape of him.

"There doesn't appear to be a size issue," he replies, squeezing gently for emphasis. He's smiling, not the usual, rather innocent grin that usually graces his face, but a smile worthy of the devil himself. "You broke my glasses, didn't you?"

"What? No, that's not...oh, God, do that again, Wesley."

Angel nods, wincing at the admission but not the feeling of those elegant fingers on him.

"Well?"

He realizes that Wes can't see him nodding and says urgently," Yes, yes, I'll get you a new pair."

"Do you know how much they cost? Where we can get them on a Sunday?"

To Angel's consternation, the wonderful motions cease as Wesley becomes irritated and steps away from him, hands on his slim hips. Angel considers the picture in front of him, resists the urge to toss him over his shoulder and throw him down on the bare bed and just fuck him right through the mattress. He sighs. "I cannot believe you're concerned about your glasses at a time like this."

Arms crossed now, Wesley says, "You mean at the moment we finally get down to it and I can't see a damn thing? That's rich coming from a man who insisted we needed a bed to do this."

"Are we going to fight, or are we going to fuck?" Angel's arms are crossed now, too, but he's teasing, trying to lighten Wesley's mood.

"It appears we're going to do the former as I can't see what I'm supposed to be fucking!"

Small grin, safe because he knows Wesley can't see it. "So now I'm a 'what'?"

Wesley's growing petulant now. "I've no idea what you are - if I could still see you, I might have a better idea, but you appear to be one big fucking blur."

"Such a dirty mouth for a nice English gentleman, Wesley. I'm impressed. And aroused. Come here." Angel puts an end to the conversation by grabbing Wesley and pulling him back into his arms. He wraps his hands in Wesley's dark, soft hair, holding him still so he can lick and suckle at the full mouth, tasting every inch of him. Wesley tastes clean, like tea with lemon and a drop of honey.

Wesley flushes to his hairline at the urgency in Angel's mouth. When those hands drop down to trail over Wesley's hip bone and slip around to linger on the dimpled flesh at the small of his back, he groans loud and long. Feels Angel shudder in response. Breaks the kiss to gasp for breath and begin to taste the marble-white skin of Angel's neck, and the sweet spot where it joins his shoulder. He feels the vibrations begin deep inside the other man's chest and realizes with another rush of adrenaline and lust that Angel is purring.

"Wes." Soft whispered voice by his ear, followed by flicker of tongue to the lobe.

"Yes, Angel?" Reply is groaned out, almost a plea rather than an answer.

"Where's the other thing?" Hands cupping the firm flesh of Wesley's ass, pressing him close so that hip bones slip and bump, and the hardness between them slides, slick with the glistening strands that coat them both.

"The other...oh God...other thing?" Wesley's losing the ability to concentrate on anything at all beyond the feeling of Angel's hands, the hard warming length of him pressed into the tight skin of Wes's belly.

"The other...thing... We...really...need it...now." Angel fills every pause with a lick on his neck or a brushing kiss to the tender area behind his ear.

Wesley can barely remember the English language now, let alone work out the meaning to Angel's vague mumblings. "Other? What other?" Head down on Angel's shoulder, face buried in the crook of his neck.

"You know." Angel pulls Wesley's face up for a kiss that sends a thrill straight to the pit of his own belly, makes him clutch at the other man and groan out the words, "You brought it, didn't you? You were supposed to bring it."

Understanding dawns. "Oh god, that other thing. Yes, I brought it, yes, yes, yes..."

"Where?"

"In my pocket, the trousers, over there." Wesley catches his balance as Angel nearly leaps to the small pile of clothing and fumbles with it. He slides a hand in each pocket with increasing frustration as he comes up empty time and again.

"It's right there," says Wesley, coming over and squinting and the blurry mass of black that he sees in Angel's hands. "It's in the one with my..." His voice trails off.

"Keys." Angel finishes the sentence for him and drops the pants back to the floor. He runs a hand through his hair and stares down at the floor.

"I am *not* going back into the wreckage for that tube." Wes states very definitively.

"Well, no one is going anywhere without it, are they?" Angel retorts.

Wesley looks hopeful as he says, "Surely in all your, uh, experience, you've managed to find other...things to use?" He actually looks desperate by the time he finished his query, and Angel grins at him.

"Well, there's blood. Blood works well." The grin grows into a full-fledged smirk worthy of Angelus, so bright and so clear that Wes can make it out despite the blur.

"Blood?"

"You were in charge of that part of the evening, Wes, so you have to get the replacement. I can nick a vein for you..." He reaches out and lifts Wesley's arm, looks at the inside of his elbow where the skin is thin and fine, traced with pale blue veins. "You know, some people actually like wearing a vampire's mark."

"If you're so set on blood, there's several gallons of it right in the fridge. You know, next to the table."

"What is it with you and the kitchen, Wesley? Are you telling me you have a food fetish I should know about?" He draws Wes back to him then, wraps a proprietary hand around his waist.

"When you get right down to it, you're rather playing with your food now, aren't you?" Wes breathes this out into Angel's ear, relaxing finally, letting the wonderful sensations of this body pressed to his sink into every pore.

"I wasn't planning on eating you...maybe nibbling a little." Punctuated with a nip to the exposed skin of Wesley's neck. "Right there."

Wesley shivers with delight. "Just there?"

"And there." Another nibbling bite, a long lick and then cool lips on his ear. "And right here." Bite of the earlobe that feels as if it should draw blood, sharp thrill of pain that makes him sway and quiver and gasp.

"There's a bottle of vegetable oil under the sink," he whispers, feels the smile in Angel's voice when he replies.

"Determined to get me into the kitchen, aren't you? What if Cordelia walks in on us?"

"I'll pay for the damn therapist myself!" Wes thrusts himself resolutely away and walks towards the door, grabbing Angel's hand and dragging him along behind him.

.. .. ..

The kitchen is still blissfully empty, cavernous freezers carrying the scantest amount of food, considering their size. Wesley knows this, because any moment he has to explore has been spent in here, looking at the space for provisions and his hungrier, more base side trying to stock up with something just in case. Just in case of what, he isn't sure - but the months of not knowing where his next meal would come from have had an effect on him, and he likes to know that if he opens a cupboard, there will be something edible inside.

Only now he isn't looking for eats, but for the very necessary bottle of oil he could swear he packed under the sink. Conscious that the heating doesn't travel well in here, and that the goose-pimples that mock his flesh are visible, he scrambles amongst the bleach and cleaning products, pulling at anything with a slightly greasy rim. Squatting on his heels, he can feel Angel behind him, long legs against the small of his back, desperate for contact. It's taking all his self-control to stay where he is and look for the bottle, when everything is so close, so available and just begging for him to touch.

But he wants to do more than touch this time and as his hand knocks over something heavy, coarse liquid sticks to his fingers.

"Bollocks."

"What's that, Wes?"

Angel, dropping to his knees behind him, chin resting on his shoulder, Wesley suddenly aware how much heat he's lost when the vampire's touch doesn't feel so cold. But the friction of chest against back is delicious, soft musculature protecting him from the room, from the world and Wesley draws his hand back out, looking at his fingers and wondering if the black viscous substance is worth a go. He draws it to his nose, but Angel is there first, drawing him up and running his fingers under the faucet.

"Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but shoe polish has never been that big turn on for me."

He watches as the black slips down the drain, Angel's fingers twisting with his, washing him, anointing his skin each time he touches it. He can feel the perspiration begin again, dripping down his chest and back, sliding down his spine until it hits the curvature of his ass. And then it's not just on him, because Angel is snug against him and obviously way more ahead of this game, able to think of more than one thing at once. As his hands are finally clean of polish, Angel's already reaching overhead to the condiments, disregarding the salt and finding the maple syrup. He's never quite got the hang of adding it to his pancakes, but Wesley is all in favor now, all ready to sample this foreign delicacy.

"I really think we need this now, don't you?"

He's nodding before his brain kicks in, wriggling back against the pervasive hardness of Angel's body. Teeth graze his neck again, and for a moment he holds his breath, waiting for pain that might come, waiting for teeth to tear into willing flesh. He knows it would hurt, he knows that Angel won't do it, but he wonders if he might welcome the sensation - if wearing Angel's mark is worth it. He opens his mouth to ask, but then he's spun round, ass pressed against the ridge of the basin, Angel's lips nipping at his own, kisses seeming not to end, but to bite and tease and ache against his flesh.

"Mortal men were not made for this kind of temptation," he murmurs as Angel slides away. He can hear the flip of a bottle lid and smells sweetness in the air, so he squints again, heart threatening to skip a beat as he makes out Angel's hands sliding over and over, firmness unmistakable. He bites down the request for a magnifying glass, for anything that would let him see better, but suspects it's probably the wrong thing to ask of a creature who could crush him like a bug, should he so want. But he does want to see, and now the image comes to him, Wesley bending over and staring through the lens at Angel's now oversized erection, taking note of texture and color and distinguishing marks.

Only it's not entirely without reference, and suddenly he's Clouseau - craving his very own pink panther.

He can't stop the chuckle rising to his lips and a dark head raises itself. He doesn't have to see it to register Angel's confusion.

"I just wanted a magnifying glass," Wesley manages before kicking himself for saying it out loud. But Angel doesn't seem all that bothered and steps forward and against him, pressing into his belly again, broader shoulders widening as hands come round to caress his back, fingers tracing lithe patterns down his spine. Wesley drops his hands again, determined to touch the sticky, slick mass matted in his own hair, finds it, wraps fingers round it's girth, biting his lip as Angel's moan echoes by his ear.

"What do you want a magnifying glass for?"

He groans as Angel's hands slide to his hips, grinding forward as solid length presses against solid length, alien fingers gaining purchase on his ass. His legs part slightly and Angel pushes forward, stepping between his limbs in a very proprietary way. That solidity in his hands seems to throb in a way it probably shouldn't and he really wants to see it, wants to watch as the object of a fantasy too many reacts so thrillingly to Wesley's touch.

"I want to see you."

Angel smiles on his neck, painting out his desire with a moist tongue.

"You want me to go find one?"

The vampire pulls away, skin losing contact, Wesley groping in the opacity of the strip lights to recapture his prize. He's as certain that Angel won't walk away as he is reminded that this same soul walked for decades without the delicate brush of a lover's touch. If anyone knows about self-control, it's Angel - but Wesley's convinced that they haven't come all this way for yet another unconsummated grope.

"We're a bloody detective agency, Angel. They're supposed to be constantly to hand."

He sees the blur edge over to where the table must be and steps forward after him, hands stretched out to reclaim flesh. His feet are more sure now and he lays fingers on the table, wondering just where Angel managed to get to. He's certain that he focused on him, but the blur is gone, and it's only when he turns round to look again that Angel looms close, all teeth and lips and hands. Hands which seem to be everywhere at once; stroking his neck, touching his shoulders, cupping his ass and urging him backwards onto the wooden surface.

Cool fabric flaps by his chest and when Angel rolls with him, he hears the leather squeak at the movement. Wrapped in Angel's coat, the vampire's body tightly round him, seeking entrance, seeking closeness, he smiles freely and claws at the shoulders that he can make out. He's flat on his back, wood hard against his spine, despite its plush covering and he can feel Angel's purpose here, clear and welcome. Wesley opens his mouth to ask for kisses, but lips close over his, pressing tongue into his mouth and he's certain that consummation has never been better named. He can almost feel his pores opening, suffusing the moisture of their flesh, and his knees reach his elbows, uncomfortable until Angel reaches round and wraps them over his hips.

Wesley blinks, longing to see how much he is wanted right now, but Angel's fingers touch his face, his neck as the kisses keep coming. He can feel thighs between his own, his erection now matting the hair in Angel's belly and Wesley groans in approval as the vampire pushes forward, slicked hardness trying to gain access. He inches sideways, trying to wriggle into position as finally, he's going to feel this, to move with Angel and live out daydreams that have kept him going this past year.

"Hey Guys…Oh. My. God."

Wesley's grateful he's unable to see the expression on his friend's face - Angel stiffens above him, hands tightening as the prospect of being watched betrays just about everything the vampire had planned for the occasion. The Englishman closes his eyes and prays for her to go away, feeling both sets of cheeks glow with embarrassment. He can sense Angel's struggle with words, and wills the man to simply give up and rest his head against Wesley's own and pretend he can't hear her.

But her feet tap closer and he feels the stash of blood smacking onto the table by his head, Angel finally dropping to bury his face against the warmth of Wesley's own. And despite the tension deflating moment, Angel trusts him, believes in him and, given the evidence against the back of his thigh, most definitely still wants him. And there will be a later.

He risks opening his eyes and catches dark curls shaking as Cordelia no doubt works out how many shoes she can get out of this.

"Geez, you two, we're in a hotel. Get a room."

~finis~


End file.
